


Memento Vivere

by Polly_Lynn



Series: TARDIS-Verse [16]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How do you commemorate something—a dozen somethings, a hundred crucial somethings—that technically never happened. Even if it means a lot. Even if each and every one means the world." One-Shot in the TARDIS-verse, not episode related, but set a year after Kill Shot (4 x 09)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Vivere

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a year to the day after Kill Shot aired. I'd never have started writing without that episode, so, for good or for ill, my life was changed. I had to write. I just had to write. So . . . thank you Alexi Hawley and David M. Barrett? Or Curse you? Or something . . .
> 
> It's the tenth TARDIS-verse story I wrote.

  


The day gets away from him. He lets it get away from him, if he's being honest with himself.

Because it means a lot to him. A lot. But he's at a loss. He has no idea how to honor it. Commemorate it. How do you commemorate something—a dozen somethings, a hundred crucial somethings—that technically never happened. Even if it means a lot. Even if each and every one means the world.

He doesn't think they'd be where they are now without that night a year ago. Actually, he doesn't really know where they are now, but that's ok. And it wouldn't be ok—he wouldn't be ok with that—if it weren't for all those somethings, all those moments that never really happened.

It's complicated.

He smiles at the thought. It makes him smile now, that phrase.

It _was_ complicated. It's not complicated any more.

He knows where he is. And he knows she's in the neighborhood. And it's . . . good. It's really good. There's this surety to it. Solidity. It fills up all the cracks in his life. It fills him up. Whether they talk about where they're going or not. They made him patient. All those moments that didn't happen. That's just one of the things she gave him. They gave each other. And it's good whether they talk about where they are or not

And they do talk about it sometimes. Sometimes, in the dark, when they're spent—when they're absolutely spent and they still can't get close enough—they talk about a year from now. Ten years. What it will be like when they're old. When they're old together.

Other times it's teasing and casual and all out there like it's a given. Like it's a given that they need to think about schools and whether they'll need a bigger place. He forms elaborate plans for shipping his mother off to exotic locales and she threatens to give Martha a whole floor for her private lessons.

And sometimes they don't talk about it at all. Sometimes they just get lost in each other. They get lost in the here and now they almost didn't have. Between Maddox and rooftops and secrets, they almost didn't have any of this. And it's enough. The here and now is plenty. They get lost in each other and it's all good.

And they mark the time like normal people do. He's done silly things. They've done silly things. The grossest candy he could find for one month after the storm. For three months, she'd answered his not-so-subtle hints about lingerie with a ridiculously raunchy banana warmer for Boba Fett. She wasn't counting on him leaving it there. He showed _her._

And her birthday, well . . . that was really her fault. He's still paying for that. Even with the jewelry—maybe _especially_ with the jewelry—he'll be paying for that for a long time to come. Totally worth it.

But this feels different. Today feels different. He thinks about marking time and he feels solemn. Reverent. In awe.

He doesn't think they'd be here without that first time. Without that time and the time after that and the time after that. All the times that didn't count.

Except they did. They did count. Whatever awful things he did. She said. Whatever she did and didn't say. He didn't say. All those awful days and nights. When everything was black and hopeless, he counted those moments and held on to something foolish.

Wherever they are or wherever they aren't six months later, he doesn't think they'd still be standing at all if it weren't for that leap a year ago. If it weren't for all the times she reached out to him in the dark. When she wasn't ready and he had no idea and they both had their secrets, she kept on taking that leap. Without that, he doesn't think they'd still be standing, alone or together.

It means a lot.

But he's not sure what to do and the day has gotten away from him.

* * *

It's a lousy day. If it's still daytime. It's hard to tell with the sky a swollen, merciless gray and the rain coming steadily down. Pins and needles and cold all damned day. If it's still day.

She thinks about a year ago. This day a year ago. Unseasonably warm and blinding sun and the world flying apart.

She'll take the rain and him and solid ground. She'll take it, even though he's not with her today and it feels wrong. Wronger than usual.

The body had dropped early. Earlier than early and she'd pulled on her clothes by the light of her phone. Tried not to wake him. Pressed his shoulders back into the mattress when he insisted that he'd get up with her. Keep her company. Smiled as he mumbled an incoherent apology against her thigh. Tripped her fingers through his hair and waited the few minutes it took for him to slip back into sleep.

The weather has taken a late November turn overnight and she's not really dressed for it. She hadn't meant to spend the night. That happens more and more. His place. Her place. It happens more and more.

She shivers and she thinks she should have a better plan than making do with what's on hand. Smiles and imagines him huffing in mock indignation as she upends a drawer or two. Commandeers hangers and hooks and space. Imagines the little things he'll do. The little things he does to make his place home for her.

He's better at that than she is, but she's trying. And she thinks he knows. That she wants him with her even though she's in the habit of being alone. That she misses him on days like today. On the nights when it makes sense for them to sleep apart. When it makes sense and they crawl into bed together anyway and one of them drags themselves up and out early, _early._ Stumbles through the dark because it's harder and harder to make sense of that. Of sleeping apart, no matter what.

He knows. He knows she misses him.

She looks at her watch. Grimaces as the movement tips rain up her sleeve. Soaks the thin material of her shirt and plasters it against her skin. It's a lousy day.

After six already and there is nothing interesting about this case. There's a squad at the end of the block. Esposito and Ryan are around the corner covering the other entrance. They know they have their guy, they just need him to make this last stupid move and it's dragging out. Everything's been dragging out all day.

She hasn't heard from him in a while. A text a few hours ago. Just a fuzzy picture snapped on the subway of a huge biker type, all tattoos and facial hair, hunched over his copy of _Frozen Heat_ with the caption, "I'm your number one fan."

It's late and she hasn't heard from him and everything— _everything_ —is dragging out.

They don't have plans. Not really. Nothing more than _talk later._ And that means _see you later,_ more often than not. More often than not, one of them finds an excuse to wind up at the other's door.

It's a game. A game to see how flimsy the excuse can get before he admits it or she admits it. Before he catches her around the waist and whispers _Just missed you_ on his way through the door. Before she reaches up and drags her nails through his hair. Drops her bag in the hallway and tells him he sounded lonely and he calls her on it. Smiles against her shoulder and tells her it's ok to miss him, too.

They don't have plans, but she assumed . . . it's the kind of thing he does. He's good at it. Remembering with little gestures. Not too much. Never too much, which surprised her at first. She thought he'd go overboard. He's all about overboard. But not with her.

With her, it's little things in twos. Silly and sweet. Things that say he knows her. That he wants to know all of her. It's never too much, and there's a warmth that builds inside her when she thinks about those little things.

Not the fire that's been there from the beginning, blinding and hot and coming and going as they went wrong and put things right again. Over and over for years. That's still there. The fire is always there.

But this is different. This is his own dog-eared copy of something he loves that he can't believe she's never read. Wrapped up and presented with a flourish. Three words on the flyleaf: _To Kate. Love._

This is him filling up her desk, her bookshelves, her coat pockets. Filling up her world with notes and tokens and memories. This is him making sure that there'll always be one for her to find. One he's tucked away for her to find. Lousy days redeemed just when she needs it most.

This is him remembering everything about them. Cataloging every event and pulling off strange little celebrations. Their first trip to Remy's. _Forbidden Planet._ The first lie he told that she pretended to believe. The first time they turned corner together as they left the twelfth and she didn't hesitate. Didn't look over her shoulder. The first time she let him win an argument when they both knew he was wrong.

It's his job. She knows it's his job to capture the details. To hold on to all the little moments and dust them off when he needs them. But it's more than that. It's him knowing when she needs them, too. It's him noticing. Him remembering and giving those memories to her, gift wrapped.

She looks at her watch again. Careful this time, but the damage is done. Her skin is clammy and she's still shivering. That peculiar November combination that she hates even when she's dressed for it. And she's not dressed for it. Almost seven and still nothing. Nothing from their guy and nothing from him.

She slides her hand in her pocket. Runs her fingers over the smooth surface of her phone. He could hear from her. She could do that. She does that sometimes, even though it's usually the other way around. Because he's the one who bores easily and she's the one with real work to do. He loves when she brings that up. Loves to crow about it. Or to whine. To tease her into taking a break as a favor to him. Always as a favor to him.

Real work or not, bored or not, teasing or not, he's just better at it. Jokes and sentiment and things that catch his eye that he just has to share with someone. He's better at it and she's his someone. That warms her up, too. She's his someone.

And he's hers. He's her someone, but she's just not like that. It's just not her.

When it's him hearing from her it's a demand for coffee that means she misses him. Or a scolding when she finds one of his TV-MA missives at an inopportune time and the scolding means that she loved it. That she wants him now. Right now. It's a picture of the three of them—her and Esposito and Ryan—bored out of their minds. A picture of the gang with a summons between the lines. _Come play. When you can, come play._

More often than not, it's something like that, but she's getting better. Once in a while it's a picture of her smiling down at one of his little gifts. Once in a while she writes a note. Writes a note and takes a picture and sends it on its way because she knows he loves her handwriting. Rolls her eyes at the thought, but sends it anyway. Once in a while it's simple. _Wish you were here_. _Can't wait_. _Miss you._ Once in a while it's just that simple.

Today, she thinks it should be that simple. That he should hear form her and it should be just like that, but she's shy. She's shy for no good reason.

He wouldn't forget. Not this. It's not the kind of thing that would slip his mind and there's no good reason for it. There's not a doubt in her mind that it means as much to him as it does to her. That he's proud of her—proud of the way they started that night. When everything was still impossible and they just . . . started. Started to figure out how to make their way together. He has to remember.

Her phone is in her hand and she's just going to tell him that she misses him and wants to be with him tonight. She wants to remember together.

Her phone is in her hand and that's when everything gets frantic.

* * *

He just wants to be home. He's annoyed with everything and everyone and he just wants to be home with Kate.

He'll figure it out. He'll think of something. They''ll figure out something together. Some way to celebrate. They're good at that. _Creative_ , he thinks with a smile. Sheds it quickly when he realizes he's inadvertently been making eye contact with some power-suited blonde who might or might not know who he is.

 _Uh . . . file that under probably_. _Shit._

He turns away, but there's no escape. The train is packed and he's tired of people climbing over him. Tired of the jostling and dirty looks. Tired of the slackers bobbing on either side of him who keep escalating in their attempts to decide which muffled shitty music the whole car will have to listen to.

He just wants to be home. He should've gotten a cab or called a car. Rain or no rain, traffic or no traffic, at least he'd be above ground. He'd be able to bother her. Let her know that he's thinking about her. That he hasn't stopped all day and he wants to see her.

But he didn't take a cab and he's jammed in with half the population of New York and no one seems to have caught the holiday spirit. Except maybe the blonde. _Shit._

His phone battery is low. Too much time underground trying to touch base with Alexis on the way out there. She'd changed her mind about where to meet and they'd missed each other at first and now it's late. It's late and he feels like an idiot for letting the day get away from him.

He just wants to be with Kate and he feels like _such_ an idiot. And then it dawns on him. Suddenly it dawns on him. He fights his way to the door. Leaves the blonde in his wake, gaping. The stop isn't ideal, but he'll walk if he has to. Leap tall buildings or commandeer a Segway. He knows exactly what to do.

He makes his way out. The crowd parts for him just as the doors are closing. They snap together and his coat gets caught. The thick folds are enough to make the doors bounce back open on a stream of profanity, all of it directed at him.

He just smiles and waves. They want to get home. They all just want to get home.

He turns this way and that. Raises up on his toes and flattens himself against the wall as he makes his way across the crowded station. His battery is low and there's almost no signal in this part of the subway, but he tries to text her anyway. Can't wait until he makes it up to the surface.

He can't wait, and it'll go through eventually. _Time out!_

* * *

She dropped her phone. As best as she can piece together, she heard Espo yelling. Barely had time to register him and Ryan barreling around the corner before instinct kicked in. She dropped her phone and bent down to grab it even as she went for her weapon.

They say it went right by her. Right by her head. Where her head had been. They say it went right by her and it must have. The evidence is right there. Brick dust and nothing where the little shop's sign used to be. Their suspect's blood on the sidewalk where Espo brought him down. And the remains of her phone scattered on the curb.

He's fine. The guy is fine other than two black eyes and a rapidly purpling nose where his face met concrete once or twice. Esposito might have taken things a little personally. Their guy is in the back of the squad and the three of them are just waiting for the scene to be secured.

They're apologizing to her. The two of them are grim and stoic. Like they should have known. Like any of them could have known that some crime-of-passion moron who tossed his gun at the original scene would have another one. That he'd panic in quite that way.

She waves them off. Waves off the apologies and tells them she's fine. She's fine, she tells them. Something catches her eye. She bends down and scoops up a piece of the phone. One of the bigger pieces of the back plate. Glossy black striped with silver. Glitter sparkling even in the dreary evening light. A sticker. A cartoon bank robber from him. For the first anniversary of the 8th time she'd saved his life. _Eight my ass_ , she thinks, and she's smiling suddenly.

Or maybe it's just something like a smile. Something fiercer. Whatever it is, Ryan hands over his phone without a word when she turns to him.

She steps into the doorway and dials. Frowns at that _stupid_ Elvis picture. Voicemail. It's relief and disappointment at once. Both. Practically at the same moment, because it's his voice and that knocks her back. But it's not really his voice and she just wants everything to speed up. She wants the real thing right now.

"Castle, it's me." She sounds ok. She thinks she sounds ok and she's glad. "I'm down a phone, so uh . . . this is Ryan's. Obviously." _Maybe not so ok._ "Um . . . let's . . . I want to see you tonight. I'm just gonna . . ."

She chews her lip. Looks toward Ryan and Esposito who are pointedly turned away. Giving her privacy, but she doesn't care. She doesn't care who hears what. "Time out, Castle."

She hangs up and hands the phone back. She's about to ask, but she doesn't have to. Of course she doesn't have to.

"We got it, Beckett. Soon as you're done here . . ." Espo claps a hand on her shoulder and steps past her. A car pulls up to the curb. Lights but no siren. Another joins it.

"We got the rest of it," Ryan finishes.

It's quick. That's what her watch tells her, but it feels like forever and if she has to spell the suspect's name or give her badge number one more time someone's going to lose a body part.

But then she's free to go. She checks with Ryan one more time. Nothing from Castle. She dithers a moment, then makes a decision. She'll go to him. One stop first, but she'll go to him.

* * *

It's perfect. The clerk tried to talk him out of it. It's not romantic. It's the wrong time of year. It's an ugly, struggling little thing. He's right. It's all true. Every word of it's true.

But it's still perfect. Tiny, stubborn bumps of silvery green on black, the little pot hardly bigger than his palm. And it will be beautiful in the spring. Lavender is always beautiful in the spring. It's beautiful now. It's perfect.

He wends his way through the crowd. Through the rain. It's freezing, but he's too impatient now. Too impatient to sink back down into the subway or fight for a cab. He keeps his head tucked into his collar and the little stone pot tucked against his side. He balances it carefully. Like it's precious. It _is_ precious. He makes his way.

The phone is completely dead now. He's not sure the message even got out, but he's so close now it hardly matters. He'll send it again and she'll send one back and it'll be perfect. He can't believe he didn't think of it before.

The crowd gets thinner as he gets closer to his place and he suddenly realizes it's late. Really late. Well past the gunmetal sky of afternoon and into that strange red-purple that takes over on winter nights. He knew it was getting on, but he must have lost more time than he realized, ducking in and out of florists over on 6th.

It's not a problem. This is how it works anyway, but he doesn't want to lose another minute of this day. Can't believe how much of it he's wasted already. But he has plans. Plans for next year. Maybe next month. Every month. The 21st of every month.

He makes a list of every coffee shop. Every park. Every topic and game of questions. Every kiss that didn't count. He makes a list and laughs out loud. She'll be annoyed long before he runs out of things.

She'll pretend to be annoyed, but he knows about her stash. Notes and buttons and odds and ends. He knows about her stash and he's seen the way she smiles over it when she thinks he's not watching. He's seen the way she smiles.

He turns the corner on to Broome and the rain makes good on the threat that's been looming all along. The sky opens and he puts on speed. Cups his other hand loosely over the top of the little pot so it doesn't get too soaked.

So the little grey-green shoots have a fighting chance. So it's perfect.

* * *

She doesn't have any trouble finding it. No trouble making her way to the exact spot. She's only been there twice. Three times, counting that day. That first day. But she doesn't. She doesn't count it. It's long behind her now. So she's only been there twice, but she doesn't have any trouble finding it.

She does have trouble, though. The whole place is closed and she'd had to slip under a chain. Force her way between two halves of a badly secured wrought iron gate. Of course it's closed with the sun long down. She sees the flashlight just as she pulls up short and her first instinct is to pull out her badge. It's ridiculous.

"Ernie," she raises her voice over the rain. "Ernie. It's Kate Beckett."

The security guard stops. Pulls himself up to his not inconsiderable height. One hand stretches the hood of his olive drab slicker forward to protect his glasses. "Beckett?"

She stifles a laugh. She feels like she knows him. She's heard a hundred stories. Castle would spin her stories, all those nights. Whenever she asked, he'd tell her a story, and Ernie was legendary. The hero. The fool. The trickster. She feels like she knows him.

But of course he doesn't know her. Not really.

"I'm a friend of Castle. Richard Castle." She's suddenly struck with how odd this must look to him. Even to him.

She feels a strange pang of guilt. She feels beholden to this perfect stranger who took care of Castle when she couldn't. When she wouldn't. When she wasn't able. This man who gave him coffee and bourbon and sometimes an ear. More often wide berth and his solitude. She feels beholden.

"Roy Montgomery was my captain," she says, because it feels like it matters. Like it will mean something. Like it's something she can offer to him.

It seems to. Recognition dawns.

"You're her," he says. _In awed tones,_ Castle would say. She feels like a fraud.

"I . . . I was shot here."

"I know, Ms. Beckett. Detective. I'm sorry," he looks around, a little wild eyed. "Do you want me to go?"

"No." She feels her own eyes widen. "I mean . . . I'm just stopping by, but you don't have to go."

He looks at her a minute and nods. "I'll leave you to it. But you know where the guard station is?"

Kate nods back and he steps closer. He holds out his hand and she holds out hers. They shake and he smiles. She thinks she's smiling, too, but she's suddenly aware that she's freezing.

"You stop by if you need anything. Any time. Mr. Castle has my number."

She claps her other hand over his. She knows she's smiling now. Feels it all over her face. "Thank you, Ernie. Thank you."

He pulls away. Looks more than a little confused at her sudden outpouring, but he's still smiling. Nods again and then he's gone.

She's at a loss for a moment. She's been so focused since she thought of it. Eyes on the prize, but it hits her now. Where she is and the weight of it all. It hits her and she's on her knees, having a conversation with a dead man. Trying to anyway, but nothing really comes.

She takes it all in. Sodden roses from Evelyn. Black beauties every Tuesday. Every Tuesday, Castle told her. And plastic sleeves for for the photos. She makes a face at one. That _stupid_ Elvis photo— _again_. She wonders who thought of it. The sleeve. She wishes she had thought of that even though she never comes here. Something to hold the memories people want to give him. The memories he doesn't get to have. Still. Something to hold them.

She takes it in, too. The thing she came here for. She takes it in and she feels proud. It's tall and elegant and the color is gorgeous. Pale purple and sturdy, silvery green. Time has been kind to it. Time and someone who does come here. It's in a different pot. A different one from May. Different from the tiny stone thing she set down here that first night.

She thinks she should say something. That there should be a conversation. But she feels now like she did then. Like she did a year ago: He's not here. It's just a place. She takes a moment to remember him and moves on.

She moves on, because it's late and she has work to do.

* * *

He's absolutely soaked and it's colder in the loft than it should be. He forgot to tweak the thermostats before he left. Again. He cranks them now. It should be perfect. She's always cold and he wants it to be perfect.

He plugs his phone in first thing. Strips down in the bathroom. Pulls out pajama pants, then thinks better of it. She might want to go out. _Time out._ He grins to himself and towels off. Tugs a pair of jeans up his wet legs because he's too impatient to do anything right. Grabs a t-shirt to take with him and heads back through the office to check on the plant.

 _Like something might have happened to it in the last 10 minutes_. He rolls his eyes at himself because she's not here to do it, but soon. _Soon._

And that reminds him of the phone. He dashes back to the bedroom to see if it's booting up yet. Launches himself across the bed and laughs a little madly when he sees he has a message. Frowns when he sees it's from Ryan. Doesn't know quite what to do when it's her voice after all, so he sinks back into the pillows and smiles.

And then he's not smiling. Because something's wrong. He can hear it from the first word. The first syllable. He's sitting up now. Stretching as far as the power cord will let him. Grabbing socks, shoes. Everything.

And then he goes still. He goes absolutely still. _Time out, Castle._

There's a knock at the door and he's up. He's moving. He's through the living room with the phone still in his hand. He stumbles as the cord tangles around his leg. Tosses the whole thing aside.

He throws open the door and she's there. She's there and she's filthy and her arms are full of lavender. Foot-long sprays of it and more, the ends wrapped in soaking, tattered newspaper.

She's filthy and she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He takes her by the shoulders and pulls her inside. Kisses her and kisses her again.

She opens her arms and he takes the lavender from her. Takes the lavender in one arm and hooks the other around her. Pulls her with him into the kitchen. Sets the lavender in the sink and turns to her.

They're laughing and talking over each other and he's pulling her coat off and now they're both filthy, but he's laughing too hard to ask what happened. She's laughing too hard to say. And he's kissing her again.

She breaks away. At long last she breaks away. Laughs and leans in to steal one more kiss, then raps out the words. Stern. They would be stern if she weren't smiling all over. But she is. "Time out, Castle!"

He laughs, too, and gives her the words back. Right against her skin. Her cheek. Her forehead. Her neck. He holds her and gives the words back. "Time out. Time out."

She pulls away again and she's quiet now. Serious. Not stern, but serious. She waits for him. Waits for him to be serious, too.

Raises her hand to his hair and notices for the first time that it's soaking. That his skin is cold and his clothes are sticking to him. He's covered with mud, but it's more than that. She wraps her arms around him.

"I love you. I love you, Castle."

It's not the first time she's said it. It's not the first time, but it feels like it.

  



End file.
